litany for the dying

the air feels like a storm today and by

that i mean the leaves are overripe

with heaviness. there isn’t a way this

story ends that isn’t tragedy.

winter has left my wrists

hollowed and hallowed

and full of longing.

remember january,

bleeding out on the sheets?

saying, this is the wound and

it means the light is coming through.

the year’s spring flowers into me. we’ve

gone down this rabbit hole and come up

with clenched fists on the other side,

so much that some days i can’t tell if i

am a ghost. a dead thing won’t know the

difference between what is still living and

what is left to rot.

i make a habit of trying to lie to the moon

but i can never quite manage it; she and i,

we shed our faces every

season. we’re all of us looking for

the same things here:

for the sky to split

open. for a god that will worship us back.

for the act of wounding, pressing itself

against the arch of my throat.